


Stanislavski

by Janissa11



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is back from a stint with the IMF. William Brandt has staying power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stanislavski

The world of spies is an Appalachian nightmare of inbreeding, incestuous intermarriages and infidelity played as a sport. Honesty and trust are not a regular part of a spy's vocabulary. Lies and betrayal are their daily bread.

When Clint Barton returns from his yearlong stint in the IMF, Phil can smell his doubts. They perfume the air around him, a sweet sad scent that tells Phil all he needs to know. The specifics aren't clear -- he's been compromised, but nothing in that aroma tells him in which way, exactly, although he suspects emotionally, probably sexually -- but Phil learned years ago to trust his first, most basic instincts.

It wouldn't be the first time someone's tried to defect from SHIELD. Phil himself might never have considered it, but others have, and a couple even succeeded.

He doesn't care about them. He cares about Barton. At times he believes it's a paternal feeling, or as close to such as men like himself ever get. He brought Barton in from the cold, and that gives him something like responsibility for the man, as Barton is in his own way responsible for Romanova.

Other times, Phil is fully aware that his feelings for Barton have very little whatsoever to do with paternalism. Far less benign.

He studies him. Barton isn't aware of the stare. He has been distracted since his return, ostensibly tired. It's been a deep cover assignment, and Barton has every reason to be tired, no doubt. He's been someone else for a long time, what was the name he'd used. Brandt, yes, William Brandt. Bland unassuming name for a bland and unassuming character, and Ethan Hunt should never have been brought into the equation. The Kremlin explosion had changed everything, the very parameters of the assignment -- get in, ingratiate yourself with the Secretary, find out what we need, extract -- fundamentally altered.

Phil wasn't part of the op, not directly. He thinks now that if he had been, perhaps Barton wouldn't have the far-off look in his changeable eyes.

Perhaps Phil wouldn't feel as though something intangible and unutterably precious was slipping through his fingers.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Barton blinks at him. "Gonna take more than that, sir. I ain't a cheap date." His lips curl with easy humor. There is nothing light or amused in his eyes.

"I never thought you were," Phil replies.

The smile slips away. "Just leveling out." Barton smooths his fingers over the tabletop. "Been a year since I was even stateside."

Ten months working with the Secretary, chief analyst funneling IMF's data to SHIELD. And three flung back into the field with the man whose checkered past had provided a convenient back story, that was all.

It had taken two months for Brandt to get into the Secretary's bed. After that, the intel was a lot better.

How long after that dive into the Moskva until it was Hunt's bed Barton was warming?

Not that long, Phil thinks. Not too long at all.

Barton had always had a talent for finding the cracks in someone's armor, and insinuating himself inside. Lonely middle-aged men a specialty.

His groin aches.

"Dinner tonight?"

"I should rack out. Been a long day."

"I'd like to see you."

Barton's eyes are shadowed. His smile is faint, wry. "Of course."

~~~~~~

In bed Barton is restless, writhing beneath him, eyes tight shut.

"Look at me," Phil says, and Barton does. His eyes are dark with arousal, and an emotion Phil can't name. The question crawls up his spine, lodges in the tight muscles of his neck. He'll have a headache in the morning.

Barton's mouth tastes like coffee and brandy and he opens like a flower, enveloping Phil's questing tongue. Phil snaps his hips forward, upward, and Barton gives a wordless pained cry.

"You fucked him," he says against Barton's mouth, and then sinks his teeth into Barton's lower lip.

Barton's ass clamps down on Phil's cock at the same time he cries out again, spurts into the friction between their bellies.

Phil grits his teeth against his orgasm, withdraws until he's barely inside, feeling Barton fluttering around the head of his dick. "I told you," he says. "Do you remember what I told you?"

Barton's eyes are hot with lust and hatred. That emotion's very easy to name. "Fuck you," he spits. "You weren't there."

Phil feels his lip curling. He drives deep again and watches Barton's mouth open, a silent cry. "I asked you a question," he whispers.

"I remember," Barton whispers. His head turns to the side, eyes searching the empty room. "God damn it, I remember."

Phil bends down to kiss him, the flavor of blood now, rich and bitter. Barton's lip is swelling rapidly. "Ethan Hunt has the luxury of principle. We don't."

Barton stares over Phil's shoulder. "Stop," he whispers.

"No."

He makes Barton come again before he allows himself his own release.

After, he grasps Barton's chin between his fingers, until Barton looks at him. His eyes look damp, as if he'd cried.

"We're not like him," Phil says honestly. "And you know that."

Barton's mouth works for a second. He blurts, "He loves me."

A savage bubble of humor, hard to stifle. He can't laugh, but he wants to. "No," he says calmly. "He doesn't. And you know that, too. You were under too long. You've deluded yourself."

Barton shakes his head. "You don't understand."

"I do. I understand everything."

"You're a fucking emotional cripple, what the fuck do you --"

"What did he say to you? When you told him the truth?"

Barton stares at him. Phil smiles. It feels tight and false. "You didn't," he breathes. "You didn't tell him."

"I want out," Barton whispers. "I don't belong here."

This smile, now. This feels very real.

"Oh, Clint," Phil says, stroking his thumb across Barton's hot cheek. "You do."

~~~~~~~


End file.
